


All It Needs is a Little Murder

by vecchiofastidioso



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Inquisitor, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vecchiofastidioso/pseuds/vecchiofastidioso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah, excellent: a masquerade ball, a plot to assassinate the Empress. A pity the uniforms someone designed for the Inquisition don't suit the Inquisitor...Someone needs to rescue the poor lad.</p><p>This is the Dorian/male!Lavellan version of the costume porn fic "A Masquerade" for Solas/fem!Lavellan. Rating and tags change will happen if smut develops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gilding

**Author's Note:**

> It took a lot of thought, inner searching, and discussion with other Dorian fans I respect before I finally explored Dorian getting together with a trans Inquisitor. I hope you lot enjoy!

         There were many things the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, was known for.  
         Slaying dragons.  
         Demolishing groups of bandits.  
         Annihilating packs of deranged wolves.  
         But standing up to Vivienne in full righteous indignation over clothing choices was not one of those things he was really known for.  
         "This is utterly _atrocious_ , darling!" she proclaimed vehemently, flicking her fingers at the uniform currently being tailored to the Inquisitor's slim form. "No, absolutely not. You there! Your services are no longer required."  
         With an elegant flick of the wrist, Vivienne had the tailor scurrying out the door, and the stunned Elf quickly scowling. "If he doesn't finish, of course it will look terrible," Lavellan protested indignantly. "I don't know who modelled for this, but I'm a twig in comparison!"  
         "It was probably designed with our dear Commander in mind. And it is utterly appalling on you. Those epaulettes were made for someone with broader shoulders. And that fabric is simply too coarse for your soft skin!" She sighed and ran a chocolate-hued hand over the Inquisitor's golden tresses with the most dubious expression he'd seen to date. "Not to mention your hair looks like a Fereldan haystack. Rustic charm, but not appropriate for an Orlesian ballroom. No, leave this to me, darling. Josephine is a good diplomat and an excellent player of the Game, but _I_ know Orlesian fashion."  
         Creators save him.

         First off, a new tailor was employed. And not just a tailor. A tailor with a team of seamstresses, armed with measuring tapes and bolts of cloth and those little wristbands that had pincushions attached. All the better to turn the young Inquisitor into a living, breathing mannequin with swathes of fabric pinned to his lissome body.  
         But of course with the tailor came a cobbler. Lavellan had to stand firm on that point though and claim it was actually against his religion to wear anything with soles. It was a pity he wasn't built like Iron Bull, or Blackwall. A lithe young Elf wasn't nearly as intimidating as those two could be. Not when garbed in leggings and a tunic, and without a single weapon on his person. It was quite the stare-down with Madame de Fer. Yet eventually she conceded it wouldn't be so odd for an Elf to go unshod. Her last word on the matter was "He should still make leg bracers for you." Which obviously meant _He **will** still make leg bracers for you._ And the Inquisitor felt he had won enough of a battle, he wouldn't argue that point any further. He would quietly let the poor artisan take his measurements and consult with Vivienne on leather and embellishments, while seamstresses changed what cloth draped where on Lavellan's narrow frame.  
         It felt like being a life-sized fashion doll for the next two days. At some point, the young man realised it was better to remain silent. It saved breath that way. His input didn't matter in regards to fabrics, the numbers of layers, the garments, the accessories (save the boot issue), or even his hair. A stylist actually whisked him away from needle-wielding ladies and gentlemen to shampoo, brush, comb, clip, and pin his hair without ever letting Lavellan get a peek.  
         On the third day, boxes and bags of clothes and accessories were strewn over the majority of the Elf's suite. More than what he needed for the ball. But when this was pointed out, Vivienne simply laughed and made an airy, dismissive gesture. "Your paramour has a delightful sense of fashion. It's simply beyond me why he hasn't taken you to task on your own lack of such. Consider this my gift, darling."  
         "It is...generous," was the best Lavellan could manage. Some arguments just weren't worth having...and he had more important things to consider at the moment. Even if the stylist was back to fuss him into his clothes for the masquerade so final preparations could proceed.

         To be honest, Dorian was terrible at waiting today. His attempts at nonchalantly finding time with his Inquisitor for the past few days were thwarted by a rather imperial Circle mage better known as Vivienne. It awakened the young Tevinter's curiosity. What exactly was she doing in Lavellan's rooms? There hadn't been any screaming. Or moaning. So a couple of options were eliminated. And a veritable army of servants had been in the Inquisitor's suite for hours before the ball. Just a _mite_ suspicious.  
         Alright: he rather liked suspicious, on occasion.  
         The Altus idly adjusted his gloves as he watched guests trickle past the members of the Inquisition still waited for their illustrious Inquisitor. He actually looked forward to this. Intrigue, the power plays of The Game, elaborate costuming, politics thinly veneered with gaiety and music. And he didn't feel too shabby in this dress uniform. Gold epaulettes, rich red fabric, a lustrous blue silk sash, decadent leather boots and gloves...But Dorian suspected it wouldn't have quite the same effect on the Inquisitor. Poor lad was saddled with the willowy frame so common to Elves. It was part of what made them so charming, but, alas, the uniform might seem a bit...overwhelming on poor Lavellan. Dorian winced at the realisation.  
         He was so concerned about the Inquisitor, he didn't turn 'round until there was a soft 'ahem'. And when he did...  
          _Well._  
         It was perfectly understandable why Dorian Pavus of House Pavus soon found his eyebrows trying to make a new home in his hairline. Because before his eyes wasn't the expected discomfited little Elf in a uniform best suited for men built like Cullen or Dorian. Before his eyes was a lithe and golden beauty.  
         He knew just how soft those honey strands were to the touch. But now they glowed and curled in the warm light, smooth, no frizz. They brushed against tawny and freckled skin, curls bobbing around delicately pointed (and deliciously freckled) ears. And those oh-so-confident golden eyes peeked up at the Tevinter mage through lashes edged with kohl. Surprisingly, Dorian had never quite noticed how long said lashes were, but Lavellan had done something to make them darker, so their swooping length was now apparent.  
         A linen shirt which on another man might be called butter yellow had more of a pale golden hue to it when worn by Lavellan. It was neither too light nor too dark, it didn't blend hair and eyes and skin together into one shade of gold. The shirt had two collars: an inner collar which stood and framed the Inquisitor's swan-like neck with coppery silk hemmed in gold embroidery, and a slightly larger collar fanning away from the first, lined with shimmering gold silk. This outer collar was folded down so the pointed tips brushed against narrow shoulders, while the resulting V from not having the shirt fastened up all the way exposed a hint of delicate collarbones. Dangerous. Very dangerous to the unwary and to certain parts of Dorian's anatomy.  
         The billowing sleeves deftly brought in at the wrists hid arms the Altus knew to be slender. They added masculinity to the Elf's unfortunately androgynous build. Lavellan had muscle--of this, Dorian was very aware--but it didn't have the bulk of human men. Loose sleeves hid this deficit, and provided a contrast to long fingers calloused from whirling a staff. And that bronze waistcoat so heavily embroidered in shimmering golden leaves with the symbol of the Inquisition hidden here and there was obviously designed just for Lavellan. It moulded to a trim waist, but added a bit of padding to his chest. Dorian knew that under these clothes was a bird-like body: muscled, but with narrow bones. The clothes adding a broadness to the Inquisitor's chest, bulk to his arms, gave physical evidence to the power flowing beneath the skin of a lissome body.  
         Dorian approved of the leather belts tastefully studded with gold, circling narrow hips and draping from them. Just two belts. Nothing over-the-top. But they also had function. He could see pouches for stashing things, a belt knife. Good. His amatus wasn't coming to this party unprepared. And the Tevinter also approved of how the golden-bronze fabric--or was it suede? he would have to touch it and see--hugged long legs. How he loved Lavellan's legs. They were a treasure, all supple muscles, and graceful, perfect for twining around the Tevinter mage's hips. And if the leggings hugged those appendages so lovingly, imagine what they did for the Elf's bottom~  
         Ah...and it seemed his amatus still had a moral objection to shoes, boots, or even sandals. For instead of boots like the rest of their party, Lavellan wore rather lovely leg bracers. The leather was obviously well-tanned and supple, for he suffered no hobbling of his gait as he walked towards Dorian with an upward tilt of his chin. The Tevinter would have to admire the embellishments of the bracers another time. Right now, he had to regather his wits and words.  
         "Well, darling, I promised you a reaction. I believe you have one."  
         Dorian was aware Vivienne had spoken. He was a little bit too busy at present smiling seductively into golden eyes that seemed to glow at him, and with lifting a narrow-boned hand for a kiss to his lover's knuckles. But enough of the words reached him to have Dorian uttering, "Congratulations on your success, Vivienne. As always, your taste is...impeccable."


	2. Tarnished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned potential for smut, did I not? Well...it _is_ a masquerade. Prepare thineselves for not much plot, but for a dash of fluff and a large amount of smut.

         The young Inquisitor suspected that were it not for the issue of _we **really** must save Empress Celene_ , his dashing young sir would whisk him away behind a drape or something and have his wicked way with the Inquisitor. Not that Lavellan objected to Dorian's wicked ways. He learned to enjoy them. But getting stripped by Dorian's eyes while standing in front of advisors, friends, and strangers--  
         Oh, who was he kidding? It was gratifying.  
         He liked the way Dorian's smile promised delicious things when they eventually find themselves alone.  
         "You really must cease and desist with the amorous glances, amatus. They're quite distracting. And whatever would the court think?"  
         Dorian's lighthearted words brought Baelion out of his musings, golden eyes meeting changeable grey. "They would think I have impeccable taste. You are quite the fine figure of a man."  
         The Altus snorted. "They would think you quite mad, amatus. Are you forgetting I'm a mage, and a Tevinter one at that?"  
         Baelion smirked instead of snorting like his lover had. "As if I would forget. I think you're the one who is old and forgetful these days, thinking I care what faceless _shemlen_ think."  
         "Unfortunately, you have to care. You're the Inquisitor. That, and it will be hard for you to get close to the Empress to protect her if you have the court's disapproval, amatus."  
         Damn. Dorian was right. It didn't stop the Elf from glaring his own disapproval though. And when his frowning made the older man laugh, Bae turned his head, hopefully before his lover caught the red tinge to golden and freckled cheeks.  
         "Come, come, now, Baelion," Dorian cajoled. "Don't pout. Your face will freeze like that, and then where will you be?" His hands gently curled around the Elf's upper arms, and Lavellan soon found himself shivering at a gentle nibble to the tip of one long ear. "Smile, amatus. It's time to show all the fops and nodcocks what true power is like. Chin up, shoulders back, and walk across that ballroom like a king."  
         Those words rang in the Inquisitor's ears as he entered the ballroom with Duke Gaspard, entourage behind them. They resonated in that rich whisper, so similar to when Dorian asked _how bad does the Inquisitor want to be?_ so many weeks--or was it months now?--ago. He could imagine the proud smirk on his lover's face as the young Elf took those words to heart. His chin was up. His shoulders were back, but not stiff. He moved confidently, smoothly, light-footed on the cool and hard floor. He gleamed like gold under the warm lighting in the hall, and his gaze was steady on the Empress' face as he bowed and began the Game with flowery words.

         Sweet Maker, it looked as though his amatus took his words to heart with a vengeance. Dorian almost didn't register the herald calling out the Tevinter's introduction, almost didn't make his bow to the Southerner Empress. He was a bit distracted by his lover's poise and his liquid voice, ringing out so clear as he complimented Empress Celene. For a moment, something perilously close to jealousy slipped through the scion of House Pavus.  
         Oh, _look_ at him. He was ruined by the very man everyone relied on to save them from the Breach and Corypheus.  
         It was almost a relief to feel the stares of Orlesian nobles, to drift out into the gardens, away from the ballroom where Baelion was playing nice and navigating the Game. This was more familiar. All it needed was a little murder, and it would be like he never left Minrathous. Though if he never left Minrathous, he'd never have a certain gilded Elf wrapped around his finger. Or was Dorian wrapped around the Herald's finger? Ah, semantics. They didn't matter when sipping wine and nibbling ham that tasted of despair. Delicious despair. With notes of weeping. Alright, so the server didn't say that, but it would have sounded good. And it would be easier to resist the urge to go kiss a certain Elf flushed and senseless if Dorian was drunk and had the taste of despair and tears on his tongue instead of sober and enjoying ham that tasted of despair.  
         Did they have cheese that tasted of agony? Maybe that would help, since being drunk wouldn't be useful in fighting off assassins.  
         "There you are, Dorian. I wondered where you went."  
         He turned to find his amatus strolling towards him with a smile on his freckled visage. The Elf still shone, even under the stars and in the lights beaming out of the windows into the dark. Oh, Maker...now Dorian found himself talking like a damned poet. Perish the thought.  
         "This is all so familiar. I half expect my mother to materialise from the crowd and criticise my manners," came out instead of syrupy sweetness though as Dorian gestured at the nobles scattered around the opulent garden. "The same double-dealing, elegant poison, canapés...it's lacking only a few sacrificial slaves and some blood magic. But the night is still young."  
         Anyone else might have been horrified or repulsed by the words the Altus spouted so glibly. Some might find it uncouth to mention slaves in front of an Elf, seeing as Elves were the bulk of the slaves in Tevinter and were servants in Orlais. But Baelion, that irrepressible youth, merely chuckled and shook his head.  
         "And what would happen if your mother were actually here, _vhenan?_ Where would that leave us?"  
         "Short one mage, after he's dragged out by his earlobe," was Dorian's prompt reply, and he was rewarded with more laughter from his lover. "You laugh, amatus, but it's true."  
         It was impossible to be irritated at those warm and laughing eyes, even if it meant Baelion was laughing at him. Not something the Tevinter generally enjoyed, not from anyone else. It didn't hurt that Bae reached out to lightly touch Dorian's upper arm, still laughing. "I can't imagine it!" the Elf protested, but Dorian knew better. That laughter meant his lover was imagining it.  
         "Picture me a young boy of five years, then. _She_ certainly always has."  
         He resisted the urge to tuck back one of those golden curls that escaped due to Baelion's head-shaking. They were in public. That was bad enough--Dorian's heart froze at the prospect of public displays of affection, even if his Inquisitor was the one instigating the affection--but it was worse with the fact they were, in essence, at court. The Orlesian court. This might not be Val Royeaux, but this was the Winter Palace. The Empress and everyone who was remotely anyone in the Game were there. He couldn't just caress his lover's face or draw him into an embrace. Maybe if he wasn't a Tevinter mage, he could. He would have had a different upbringing if raised in the South. And people whose opinions mattered for political reasons wouldn't see him as an evil magister.  
         "Well, don't wear yourself out mingling. I want to dance with you later."  
         Baelion saying such things in the wake of Dorian thinking of how terrible public displays of affection were, particularly for them and in such a setting, had the dark-haired mage laughing aloud. "Dancing with the evil magister in full view of every noble in Orlais? How shocking!"  
         But his sweet lad wasn't laughing now. In fact, he was frowning slightly. "Then let them be shocked, Dorian. It isn't that bad."  
         "You say that now. If you can find me ten silk scarves, I've got a dance that will _really_ shock them."  
         At least Baelion wasn't frowning now, though Dorian still had that unpleasant feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach. Bae was...disappointed. And Dorian wasn't used to his disappointment in matters concerning them. It was there in the Elf's sigh as he said, "Alright, then. Keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."  
         "I'll be ready for your signal. Provided this spicy punch isn't as strong as it seems," Dorian promised.  
         Ah...and there was his beloved's laughter once more.

         Baelion was admittedly...discouraged. Not only by the search for the Venatori agents, but by the situation with Dorian. The blasted man hadn't touched him since greeting him before they entered the ballroom. Not that this was anything new. It was just...it would be nice if Dorian did a little something to show he and Lavellan were together. It was tiring to find appropriately flowery phrases that didn't encourage those who flirted with the Inquisitor. And he'd gone four days already of no privacy with Dorian.  
         Standing in a covered walkway some time after checking in with Dorian, the Elf watched his lover charm a noble in a silver mask with feathers swooping back over a shaved (or bald. Bae preferred to think it was bald) head. Preparations and now the ball itself had kept them from spending any time together, and it had the Inquisitor sighing with frustration.  
         But now Dorian was heading towards him, while the unknown noble wandered off towards a group garbed in blue and green. Baelion blinked and tipped his head slightly, giving his lover a questioning look.  
         "I could feel you staring, amatus. Am I needed?"  
         In that moment, the answer was an unequivocal _yes._ "I need to borrow you."  
         As he pulled Dorian back towards a door hidden in the shadows, the Tevinter chuckled, the sound warm. "What am I? A library book?"  
         "You are a surprisingly elusive lover, and about to be kissed," Bae warned before pushing Dorian up against the door, effectively closing it behind them. He stretched up to claim his Altus' mouth while his left hand turned the lock, a soft click punctuating the air along with Dorian's reflexive gasp at the younger man's boldness.  
         Baelion didn't usually initiate anything beyond verbally expressing his wishes. He still had moments of worrying Dorian would realise a desire for a man who could actually take the Tevinter. But those worries were gone right now, far fainter than the music filtering into the storage room they found themselves in. In their place were hot breaths, Baelion demanding and receiving entrance to Dorian's mouth, tongues grinding against each other, Dorian's hands gripping and squeezing the Elf's rear.  
         "Suede."  
         The word, breathed between their mouths as they parted for breath had Baelion frowning slightly in confusion. "What?"  
         Dorian chuckled and lifted the Inquisitor up, prompting lissome legs to wind around Dorian's waist. "I'll explain later, amatus. I believe you were expressing dissatisfaction over your neglect?"  
         The Elf nodded and draped his arms over Dorian's shoulders as the older man took them further into the storeroom. "I missed you." He flushed as the words came out more plaintive and higher-pitched than he expected or wanted. Dammit. Bae was the Inquisitor, a symbol for Elves and a symbol of hope for peace and order. He was a leader. And yet he sounded like a whiny teenager now. Hardly mature.

         It wasn't mature, but it had Dorian tickled pink. His amatus was hardly ever selfish. In fact, the Elf was one of the most selfless men Dorian knew. Far more selfless than himself. Probably the only man less self-serving than the Inquisitor was Felix. So when Baelion was actually selfish--particularly when it concerned Dorian--the Tevinter was happy, and felt compelled to respond in kind.  
         A thought and a twitch of a finger had dust disperse from the sheet covering...a chaise langue, judging by the shape. Perfect. He could deposit Baelion there with a smirk, could tangle his fingers in honey curls he'd itched to touch all evening. He'd confirmed those delicious leggings were suede, and it was a pity he hadn't made a bet with Varric about them. Dorian could have used the coin, bought Baelion more tunics and whatnot to go with the perfect leather garment encasing toned legs and lovingly cupping a pert bottom.  
         He used his grip in his flushed Elf's hair to position the young man's head and brace him for a dizzying kiss. Oh, Bae had made a good effort against the door. It had made Dorian's blood race, as evidenced by the hard bulge he now ground against his lover's bottom. But this was a claiming, a plundering. This was a ravishment, with Baelion groaning and caught up in Dorian's pace of teeth nipping at soft lips, aggressive tongue, lips moving in tandem in one of the oldest dances in Thedas. An unfortunate side effect of the Elf's kisses at times was a clicking of teeth together. There was none of that now as Dorian took complete command and felt Baelion melt underneath him.  
         "The court will wonder where you are, amatus," Dorian rasped against heated skin, peppering kisses down a long, slender neck, teeth gently scraping the throat Baelion bared so trustingly.

         To be quite honest...Bae couldn't bring himself to give a damn about the court at the moment. He was too pleased with finally feeling and tasting Dorian again. Four days of nothing, not even a kiss? Torture. How had he survived? Even when they were wandering the countryside, they had semi-private time in a tent together. They could still kiss, still touch. Bae could still indulge in physical contact with Dorian, nobody's eyes upon them.  
         "Let them wonder," he groaned with a roll of his hips. The resulting hiss from Dorian made Bae smirk a little before his mouth was claimed again.  
         Leliana had mentioned all the scandals and secrets here at the Winter Palace that were just waiting to be found and used. Knowledge of who was sleeping with whom. Had his spymaster suspected Baelion and Dorian would court scandal themselves? Even if she had, she wouldn't have been able to imagine the traces of spicy punch on Dorian's tongue, the deft way his hands unfastened the Elf's garments without needing magic. Nor could she have pictured Lavellan's body slowly arching at the cool and tingling touch of ice and electricity over his skin, his hands coming up to cover his moans with a shudder.  
         "That's it, amatus. Don't want to be discovered and interrupted, now do we?" was purred into one pointed ear, prompting a head shake and soft whimper as his lover gently bit down on the tip. "Good. Let's really get into the spirit of things. There's something we haven't done yet that's perfect for this."  
         The blond man was confused for a moment, and then his body was no longer curled up under Dorian's warmth. He was flipped onto his chest and knees, legs spread with his leggings tugged down around his knees. Oh. _This._ He bit his lower lip and trembled while his lover chuckled and playfully traced a finger down the seam of Bae's ass. "You like this, amatus?"  
         "Ye-es!"  
         "Oh, good. I'll have to remember this then." The teasing fingers retreated, and their absence was soon followed by the scraping of a lid opening, the slightly fruity and spiced scent of Lavellan's preferred oil. "You're lucky I picked a thing or two up in my time with you. Where would you be if I wasn't prepared?"  
         Of course, the Inquisitor being who he was, that teasing question couldn't go unanswered. He lifted his head from the seat cushion to glare over his shoulder at Dorian with dilated golden eyes. "I'd still be on my knees, you'd just be getting ready to enter my mouth instead of my ass," he quipped facetiously.  
         The way Dorian's brows rose then snapped down over eyes that glittered in the low light of the storeroom was highly satisfying. "That was quite naughty, imp," the older man practically growled.  
         "Are you going to spank me?"  
         "For one thing: that's more Bull's style. And for another: we don't have the time for it. So, no."  
         The Elf started to laugh, but the slick pressure of Dorian's fingers against his back door had him gasp. They weren't cold, not with Dorian warming the oil. But it was half in anticipation and half at the sensation. When that first digit slipped in, the moan Bae smothered in the sheet-covered furniture was pure approval. Despite the hushed and rasping reminder to relax, he couldn't help the tension. He couldn't help trembling under Dorian as the older mage tried to be thorough but quick. Not so much foreplay this time, but that didn't lessen the Inquisitor's excitement and eagerness. He was still perfectly quick about reaching back and fumbling with his lover's blasted dress trousers, tugging and shoving fabric out of the way with one hand so he could grip and stroke Dorian's erection. He still grinned at the expletives in Tevene at the move.

         Baelion was an imp. A demon. A Desire demon. Had to be.  
         After all, Dorian had once shared a pleasant interlude with a Desire demon before politely refusing to be possessed. It was entirely possible.  
         There was nothing holy about the way Baelion looked, face and ears flushed with his cheek squashed against the white sheet, candlelight glinting off tousled golden curls, lower lip caught between his teeth as he reached back to guide the Tevinter's cock right where he wanted. There was no Herald of Andraste here in eyes that fluttered closed and scrunched-up brows, in a face hastily turned into sound-deadening cushioning to muffle a moan as Dorian thrust forward, gritting his teeth and going slow to start. They had a limited amount of time for this tryst, but he would sooner convert to the Qun than hurt his lover.  
         A knee came up to press into the shrouded chaise cushion, a muscular leg leaning into Baelion's more slender and trembling limb as Dorian made the final push into his lover's warmth. This was a different kind of worship than that of the masses who bent the knee to their golden saviour. Where they would not dare to touch, the Tevinter devoured. His body covered the Herald's, his arm curling around a narrow and toned waist with hot breaths against rumpled curls and flushed skin. He claimed that which many viewed as unobtainable with a sinful roll of his hips, with straining muscles that picked up a hard and shallow pace, punctuated with long and smooth strokes like invocations of _so let it be._  
         It was positively sinful, the way the Inquisitor moaned into the cushions, the soft sounds covered by music and laughter and inane chattering. A holy figure should not feel so warm, should not squeeze so tightly around the dick of a dread mage from evil Tevinter with such obvious enjoyment. They shouldn't think of things like adding elfroot extract to lubricating oil to reduce discomfort after intercourse. And yet Dorian worshipped at his altar. He lifted a hand in prayer, softly and steadily rubbing at a small, hard bud with the most minute flickers of electricity in a bid for his Herald's muffled cries of approval. He rasped words of praise, directly in His Worship's ear while that utterly earthy being trembled and ground back against the mage's groin.  
         Sweet Maker, but Dorian wouldn't mind changing religious views in the face of these responses to his devotion.

         They had so little time, but Baelion was so utterly lost in it. He could only barely bring himself to care about the fact there were people just on the other side of the wall, outside the door, enjoying a party and participating in a deadly Game. It would be so easy to shout out his delight in Dorian's skilled attention to Bae's pleasure. If it weren't for those attending the party...  
         The thought someone could walk in, see Dorian so utterly tearing down the polished and regal appearance of the Inquisitor as he rendered that powerful figure into a trembling and eager figure immersed in pleasure...it had the Elf flexing around Dorian while heat pooled low in his belly. Let them. Let them see Baelion accept the only worship he truly wanted, from the one devotee set apart from the rest.  
         As he shuddered with eyes shut tightly, pleasure rippling through him, Baelion let out a cry into the sheet that had his throat aching, unable to hold back any longer. And in that moment, he was at peace. He wasn't the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor. He wasn't trying to prevent Corypheus from throwing Orlais into disarray. He was worshipped, but worshipping in return. His pleasure brought pleasure too, because soon there was a groan against his hair and warmth pulsing through a still-quivering passage.  
         He was a scandalous being of pleasure, like so many of the masked nobles he'd seen slipping off with muffled laughter throughout the evening.  
         Yet never had he felt so holy as he did now, gasping for breath in tandem with Dorian and filled with his lover's release.


	3. Polish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops! The lovers are discovered, and the evening must go on...

         It was such a shame they really had to get on with their evening. Dorian couldn't help sighing softly as he and the Inquisitor cleaned themselves up the best they could with what they had and adjusted their clothing. He could quite happily spend hours watching that pert ass move as Baelion adjusted his leggings, seeing the suede cling so delightfully. The bright spot in all of this was Dorian would be the only one--besides Vivienne--who knew just how little this supposedly holy and blessed figure wore under his clothes.  
         He was smoothing his hair in the reflection of a tarnished mirror when a soft kiss was pressed to his neck. "Amatus?"  
         "Thank you." This time, the affectionate gesture was deposited on Dorian's lips with a soft hum. "I think I can survive the evening now."  
         "Sometimes, Baelion, you say the oddest things." The Tevinter chuckled and adjusted his lover's collar for him. Oh, it wasn't that he disapproved of Lavellan's comment. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was smiling--smirking, really--as he reached to unlock the door. But before he could say anything else, he saw someone right outside the door as he prepared for a reflexive glance around the area.  
         "Kaffas!"  
         "Quite, darling."  
         "Vivienne!"  
         The Iron Lady arched an eyebrow at the couple, and Dorian found himself feeling like he was five years old. He wouldn't have been surprised if she reached out and gripped his earlobe like his mother would. So the (admittedly) naughty mage simply did the only thing he could: he lifted an eyebrow right back, moustache twitching with his lazy smile. "Fancy seeing you here. I would have thought you'd be mingling, Madame."  
         "I was, and noted the Inquisitor's absence." Her dark eyes, so cool, turned towards the regal beauty, and Dorian was certain she could guilt entire houses with the force of her sigh. "Oh, darling, your hair..." As she shook her head, she redirected Baelion to the chaise and shooed Dorian through the door. "Check in with Leliana, dear. I have work to do."  
         It was almost like having his mother at the ball with him.

         Shit. He could feel Vivienne's disapproval, even if he couldn't see her. It was hard to resist hunching over, lacing his hands together, bouncing his knees. Yet somehow, Baelion managed.  
         "I am amazed at how quickly your hair became a bird's nest again."  
         "Yes, well..."  
         She surprised him with a chuckle, interrupting his flustered attempts to find an excuse. "Relax. I can fix this." Indeed, her fingers were already at work as the Grand Enchanter spoke. They caught in tangled curls at times, and Bae suspected it was partly in wordless punishment. "You forget I first attended events such as these when I was approximately your age. I can recall the exhilaration. The secret, my dear, is to avoid positions which cause excessive disarrangement of your appearance."  
         He swallowed and felt his face heat. Were his ears on fire too? "Yes...Madame Vivienne..."  
         "Good lad. And you are quite fortunate one of the servants dropped quite the impressive tray of wine. The resulting crash and distressed wailing covered up your shout."  
         Ohhhhhhhhh Creators...He wanted to bury his face in his hands, but Vivienne had her fingers in his hair, so Baelion's head couldn't drop forward. "I'm getting the sense some thanks are owed to you, Madame."  
         "Perhaps."  
         Meaning _'absolutely'_. Bae sighed and held still as his hair was scraped with deft fingers, twisted, braided. He'd have to pay her back later. An Orlesian red wine? Texts on magical theory? Brocade? _Note to self: check with Josephine later on appropriate gifts for Madame de Fer._  
         Finally, his shoulders were lightly tapped. "There, my dear. You look presentable once more. Hopefully you won't need my intervention in such matters again tonight," Vivienne sighed.  
         A glance in the tarnished mirror showed his blond curls were swept over to his left and gathered in something of a twist, held in place with a suspiciously sharp-looking metal clip, while the remainder on the right was in a braid and held in place with a few hair pins. Very elegant. It had his jaw drop for a moment before the Elf closed it and swallowed. "You have my thanks, Madame. I shall, er, avoid a repeat performance." He coughed and rose from his seat with fervent hopes his cheeks would stop burning soon.  
         "Good." Vivienne smiled and linked arms with Baelion as they headed for the door. "We should go reassure your paramour all is well. He looked positively harried as he left."

         Well, Baelion looked flushed, but not pained. And the hairstyle was lovely. Were they alone, Dorian might even reach out to caress those reddened cheeks and tease his lover gently. His sweetheart always reacted so nicely to his teasing~ The thought brought a smile to Dorian's face as he executed a short bow to the Inquisitor and Vivienne.  
         "Damage repaired, I see," he remarked lightly once Baelion and Vivienne were in easy earshot.  
         The Enchanter laughed softly and shortly. "Indeed. I have just finished telling our dear Inquisitor I hope my services in that department will not be needed again tonight."  
         Dorian swallowed a laugh of his own but couldn't suppress a smirk. It had been so worth it. He was more relaxed now, he and Baelion had finally touched for the first time in a few days, and Dorian couldn't help feeling smug over the glow that suffused his golden amatus. "I think you can rest assured your attention may now focus elsewhere."  
         She imperiously arched an eyebrow at both men before gliding off as Baelion let out a long sigh. It merely fuelled Dorian's internal laughter, especially when Baelion shot a glare at him that clearly said _I know you're laughing at me, vhenan._ The Tevinter mage shrugged innocently and let a smile slip free, which widened into a grin when the Inquisitor shook a spidery finger at him.  
         "You owe me a dance later, vhenan."  
         Dorian laughed. "With or without silks?"  
         Oh, Baelion's flushed face was precious. Dorian was still chuckling as his Elven lover turned on his heel and retreated with surprising dignity back inside. He could still feel the questioning and often baleful stares of the Orlesian nobles. But it didn't bother him. Yes: it was almost exactly like being back home. The Tevinter also had all those precious faces Baelion had made in the last fifteen minutes to buoy his spirits. A smirk played about his lips as he turned back to the nobles gossiping in the gardens with renewed resolve.  
         Right. Baelion had blossomed quite beautifully tonight. How could Dorian do any less? He drifted over to a group of lords and ladies whose conversation seemed to flag, and opened his mouth to deliver a witty comment as a conversation starter. Might as well do his part to garner approval for the Inquisition, until his lover had need of his more physically deadly skills.


	4. Epilogue

         Baelion took a deep, cleansing breath of cool air out on the balcony as Lady Morrigan left. It felt good to get away from the somewhat stuffy ballroom, away from the scene of the almost-assassination, away from the majority of the watchful eyes. Never had he felt the weight of his titles as keenly as he did tonight, and it had him bowing his head as he leaned against the balcony railing.  
         "There was an ancient dowager looking for you. Said she had twelve daughters! I told her you'd left already. You can thank me later, or now."  
         That familiar, light-hearted voice drew the Elf out of himself and had him almost languorously glancing over to see Dorian making himself comfortable next to the weary Inquisitor. It even brought something of a smile to Bae's face to hear Dorian's voice gentle and say, "But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?"  
         Bae sighed softly and rubbed at the end of his nose as he looked back out into the night. "I'm just worn out. Tonight...was...very long. Even with our brief respite." But he looked back at Dorian as the older mage laughed and lightly touched a narrow shoulder.  
         "You won! You saved the day! Literally: the day is saved." Dorian gestured to the ballroom as the Elf turned more fully towards him with a tilt of his blond head. "You should be celebrating! Enjoy yourself while you can."

         Obviously, his encouragement was going nowhere. Those golden eyes still looked tired, almost bleak. And those slim shoulders which had been held back proudly for so much of the evening, that back which had held straight and proud as the Inquisitor stood with Empress Celene, were drooping still. Kaffas, he needed to think of something.  
         Dorian glanced back to the ballroom and saw the musicians preparing for another set. He thought back to earlier in the evening, when Baelion had practically pleaded for a dance with wide, hopeful, excited eyes. An idea struck him then as his gaze returned to his young lover.  
         "What you need is a distraction," he declared assertively with a smile. "I have just the thing: let's dance."  
         As he bowed with a flourish of his left hand extended towards the Inquisitor, the mage was rewarded with a gleam of interest, excitement in golden orbs. There was a soft smile curving up lips he had eagerly kissed earlier in the evening. "I was hoping you'd ask," Baelion responded in a husky voice.  
         In that moment, Dorian felt ten feet tall. He'd managed to boost his amatus' mood again with such a simple gesture that honestly, Dorian almost hadn't extended. He still worried about how the court would receive the Inquisitor dancing with a dread Tevinter. He still felt anxious with public proof of his relationship with another man, years of Tevinter tradition screaming at him _this is wrong, this is wrong, there could be dire consequences._  
         But he ignored these voices screaming in his head. He ignored them in favour of taking Baelion's hand with a pounding heart. He smiled and pulled his graceful little love in towards him, left hand lifting Bae's right and right hand settling securely into the small of his golden beauty's back. "Thank goodness _one_ of us has a little initiative," Dorian teased as he gracefully guided Baelion in the steps of a waltz, ignoring any who might glance out of the ballroom at the couple on the balcony.

         He was...happy. Still tired. Still dreading having to leave in the morning for Skyhold, for more planning and delivering judgement. But those things were subtly pushed back by the firm and warm pressure on his back, by Dorian's smile gleaming under the stars as they twirled in a private dance. It had Baelion sighing and smiling softly as he and Dorian gradually moved closer than was appropriate, even for the waltz.  
         "Any chance I can convince you to join me for a more private dance after this?" he breathed against Dorian's jaw as they moved in unison in a series of turns.  
         "You had but to ask, amatus."


End file.
